


You Can Close Your Eyes

by whyyesitscar



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F, featuring mentions of the rest of the gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2019-08-28 06:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: Naomi and Emily, seventy years older and still together. A portrait of sorts.





	You Can Close Your Eyes

"Here. This one right here. It looks like a river."

"That's a tactful way to put it."

"Stop," she says, laughing. Even after so many years, her laughter is my favorite sound. She picks up my arm again and smoothes her finger over a vein, traveling lightly over my skin from elbow to wrist. "The Nile, maybe," she debates. Her smirk is devilish. "Had fun in Egypt, didn't we?"

I scoff. "Ugh, I don't think fun is the way I'd describe it. We almost got arrested four times—all your fault, I might add."

"It absolutely was not!" I look pointedly at her. "Okay, well, the last one wasn't at least. Anyway, you're the one with a bit of the Nile in her."

"Ems, I may be old but I'm not that old."

She smiles and slides her hand down my arm, tracing the rivers under my skin, following tributaries that spill into the delta of my palm. Her fingers have lost elasticity in their pads. It just means there's more for me to hold. They are cool and familiar as they grasp mine, telling me with a squeeze that if I'm old, she's old. If I'm a bird, she's a bird—that sort of thing.

When words start failing you, a touch suddenly says more than you ever thought it could.

"You look tired, Naoms. You can sleep if you want."

I turn my head and smile at her, pressing a kiss to her temple. She's shrunk over the years, making her even tinier than she had been at seventeen. It's okay; I'm tinier, too, and her eyes are still the biggest things in my world.

"I sleep when you sleep," I answered. "Nine o'clock every night, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Well what do you want to do for fourteen minutes?"

"Can we just sit like this?"

She shifts her hand and pats the back of mine, laying her head on my shoulder. "For a bit."

I smile and sigh, looking down at our hands clasped on the couch. The backs of them are mottled, speckled with more liver spots than I'd like. We've been through a lot, my Emily and I. Trips around the world, frustrating bosses, three children, and Katie—always Katie. Our respective parents have gone and left us with trinkets, houses, and at least forty pounds worth of guilt. Don't even get me started on what grandchildren do to your figure. Red hair has turned brown and then gray; blonde has faded into white. Crinkles surround our eyes and mouths, and still I think my wife beautiful.

"You can close your eyes, Naomi. I'll wake you up in time for bed," she says cheekily.

I grin. "I want to watch the moon."

"You hate the moon."

"I do not. The moon means I love you."

She rustles her forehead against my shoulder. "And how exactly do you figure that?"

"Well," I say expertly, "the moon means the Earth is still in orbit, right?" She hums her agreement. "As long as that keeps up, you're the love of my life."

"You're such a sap," Emily laughs.

"You're one to talk. Can we go back to sitting now?"

"Of course, dear."

Our house is small and well-kept, walls littered with photographs and memories. The carpet has seen spit-up and dogs; the couch has housed Cook and Effy more times than they'd care to admit. We've grown into our bedroom, separating clothes and consolidating books. Emily's side of the dresser is littered with Post-Its—a recent addition. I've only got one, written by a sixteen-year-old with more faith and patience than I ever deserved.

It may have yellowed and the ink may have faded, but the meaning was never really in the words, anyway.

"It's okay if you close your eyes."

"You told me that already, Ems."

"Oh."

Almost seventy years later and I still want to protect her from everything. I feel it every day, the clock. Every beat of my heart is a tick; every two times Emily smiles, I think of the next three that she won't. Hours rush past like seconds when we visit Thomas and Panda isn't there anymore. I catch JJ's nurse steal a glance at her watch while he babbles away and I wonder if I should start preparing, even when every part of me wants to hug her away until the world stops asking questions. I contemplate taking one last trip—some place warm where the sun, which has always been so enamored with her face, can erase any shadows of the ordinary. I imagine margaritas on the beach, the ocean in her eyes, soft towels made of terrycloth and peace. There is a soft breeze blowing and a cool night is always made warmer by her hand in mine. I will always hold our house in a special regard, but home to me is wherever Emily is. Thanks to her, I have homes on six continents.

Emily's hand has found its way back to my arm, swirling patterns and shapes with the lightest of touches. She watches her fingers with a wistful gaze and I wonder what she's seeing, what she's remembering that makes her cheeks gleam with the most fulfilled smile I have ever seen.

"You're beautiful, Naomi," she whispers.

"You're biased."

She turns my arm over and peruses the freckles. "You have a lot of right triangles on you. I wonder what that means."

"I should probably keep my legs away from Pythagoras."

The clock chimes nine o'clock as she circles each dot individually. "Even your veins are pretty," she mutters. She stops on one. "Look, Naoms, this one looks like a river." Her face lights up mischievously. "Remember how gross the Nile was?"

I smile. "All too well." I get up slowly, my knees popping in protest. "Ready for bed, Ems?"

She stretches and yawns. "I guess. You look tired, though; you should get some rest."

I grab her hand as we walk to the bedroom. "I plan to."

We get changed in silence, no longer needing to rely on words to pass the time. She puts on my favorite nightgown and I settle into bed wearing her favorite reading glasses, and suddenly we've said all we need to.

"Don't stay up too late," she says, her voice already sleepy.

"Impossible when I've got a book in my hand."

"I love you, Naoms."

"Love you, too, Ems."

"Sweet dreams." It is barely more than a whisper but I hear it anyway. I listen for it every night because it is a promise more than a wish.In my dreams, the sun shines on Emily's hair and we are young again—young and perfect and made for the world. We laugh our way through France, sneak our way through Egypt, smile our way through weddings. Her hand is in mine as we sit in the grass, on a cliff, in a Ferris wheel, and we can stay there as long as we like.


End file.
